


five years

by EllenRipley



Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 18:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10496943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenRipley/pseuds/EllenRipley
Summary: It's been five years since the Mikaelsons fell. Five years since Marcel won the battle for New Orleans. What happened to Klaus during those five years? What did his imprisonment look like?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before the Season 4 premier and decided to just go ahead and post it anyway. This may become a sort of drabble collection of Klaus and Caroline angst. (If it does become a drabble collection, just keep in mind that I haven't watched season 8 of TVD and I most likely won't for a while.)

 

At no point in his very long life had Niklaus Mikaelson ever given consideration to what hell would be like. He had never felt it necessary to ponder on such philosophical concepts. The human desire for religion and knowing where they would go after death had always baffled him. They would achieve peace or they wouldn’t. Why did anything else matter?

As far as he was concerned, he knew what the afterlife would entail for one such as him – if he even _could_ die – and heaven, hell, purgatory… None of these were an available option for him as a supernatural creature. He would pass through the keystone into the Other Side and that would be it.

If at any point in the past he had paused for a few moments in the considerable number of years he had been alive, he probably would have pictured something not unlike what Dante described in his epic poem. He had read Dante Alighieri’s entire _Divine Comedy_ in the original Italian and he could get behind the idea of nine circles.

What he could have never foreseen was that hell was, in fact, an abandoned warehouse-turned-temporary-club in the middle of New Orleans. It was a dimly lit club playing the latest dance hit. It was pulsating lights and the whine of overexerted heartbeats of the wild youth that filled the place.

He would have never have chosen the gatekeeper, either. Humans would have expected a red-skinned devil with horns and a pitchfork, maybe even a tail. Instead, this hell had chosen a young man with cryptic eyes, a devil-may-care smile, and a mesmerizing voice. There was a group of infatuated men and women at the door, gaping up at the bouncer. The gatekeeper waved him in, flashing a smirk in Klaus’ direction.

The occupants of hell were all young and wild, full of life. He could smell sweat and arousal perfuming the air mingled with the bitter scent of alcohol and the acrid scent of drugs. The power of their youth, choreographed into a single all-encompassing bounce in time with the music, was intoxicating more so than the alcohol that heated their blood or his desire for that blood.

To Niklaus, this was heaven, not hell. Even with the dull ache in his chest, just over his heart, that pulsated in time to the music, this place was joy in real time. Heaven was the thrill of the hunt. He didn’t know any better as he wandered dimly through the club, pondering on the joys of hunting.

There was a beauty in the hunt. It wasn’t simply the knowledge that soon enough, he would be satisfied, feeling the heat of a stranger’s soul against his lips. It was that split second moment where he was closer to his meal than a lover, where he was one with them. Their heartbeats pounding together in a synchronous melody, his excitement overriding their fear, and a final second of eternity before they died in his arms.

Kol understood the joy that went into a true hunt. How many nights had they spent together, further escalating the bloodlust with games and bets? They would one-up each other over and over again, trying to prove which one of them was the better hunter, who was the better vampire. All of those games were nothing more than a distraction; though to be fair it was a _fun_ distraction.

The games didn’t heighten or add to the hunt. They didn’t make it any better or any easier. It was simply another added bonus to the long line of bonuses that were inherent when he was hunting the inferior. As many games as they played, as many bets as they had made with one another, Klaus had never had to explain this to his brother because Kol had simply understood it.

Drunk and giggling, Kol had spoken aloud exactly what Klaus felt the second he took someone as his prey. He had brought it up exactly once, during their escapades in France. It was a few weeks before they had been forced to flee in the face of Mikael’s possible arrival.

It was that single moment when he took them into his arms, when he felt their body pressed against his and his fangs sank into whatever artery he was closest to when he felt like a god. He had power over life and death. It was heady, to be sure, and a gift that most likely he and his siblings should never have been given.

But they _had_ been given it. They had power over life and over death and it was that power, that knowledge of their power, which left them aching with the need to hunt, to glutton, to destroy.

As Niklaus forced his way through the club, he felt that pounding power behind his eyes. He could kill any single person here or choose, mid-feed, not to kill them at all. Their life, their death was in his hands, or more to the point, in his fangs.

He could choose the young brunette bouncing beside him in tune with the drum beat, his eyes closed and his lips partially open in ecstasy. He could choose the curly haired blonde waif directly in front of him, the one with the storm tossed eyes and the come-fuck-me smile.

He paused, looking at the blonde as the music pulsed around him. She was gorgeous. All light and fine lines. Her lips were softest pink, captivating and enchanting. He knew they would be soft, delicate, and delicious. She wore a scrap of cloth for a skirt and a matching tank top. He could feel his heartbeat pause as he drank her in and he knew that he had to have her.

Dancing in tune to the music, she had her eyes closed and her arms raised above her head. She pivoted and twirled, her body speaking the same language as the beat of the song playing. He was enchanted, enthralled. He couldn’t pull his gaze away and when she felt the heat in his eyes, her eyes snapped open and latched onto him.

The blonde in the knee high leather boots, winked at him and crooked her finger at him as she began to disappear in the dense waves of humanity on either side of them. Aroused by that direct look, that smile that pulled at him as clearly as a leash on his hardening dick, he fell in line behind her.

She grinned back at him again, her eyes wide and sweet now. The smile was less intent, more general. The look she gave him promised no such sweet release as the use of her mouth and body to please him into tumescence. The sexpot look was gone, replaced by something else, something even more enticing.

 _Innocent_ , his mind supplied; that’s what she looked like.

She was a blank page, ready to be written upon. He had a void filled of stories deep inside all ending with him holding her tightly to him, tasting her in the most intimate ways imaginable. He knew, _he just knew_ , that her blood would taste as sweet and bitter as chili chocolate. The copperish taste of her blood would be minimal; she would have a bouquet of uniqueness.

He had to have her.

Like a drumbeat behind his eyes, all he could think of was what she would look like when she was coming, breathing his name in gentle gasps as he filled her. He wanted to take her, pressed face-first against a full length mirror. She would be able to watch not only as he slid himself into her over and over again, but also watch as he slid his fangs into her neck over and over again, blood gushing forth across his chin, splattering the glass.

The predator in him screamed out against the leash he kept it tied with; he would have her and he would destroy her in the having.

He plunged into the streaming hiss of humanity, moving faster and faster. His legs pumped in time with the music as the blonde bitch lured him ever further on. He had to have her. If he didn’t take her into his arms, if he didn’t pull her to him and feel the battle of her life and death beneath his trembling lips, he would go insane. He would lose whatever tenuous grip he had with his sanity for all time.

 _He had to have her_.

Niklaus caught up with her, grabbing at her hand. With a laugh and that same sexpot grin, the one that made his heartbeat race and his dick jump straight up and take notice, she slid her hand from his. “Come on, lover,” she purred as though they were headed back to his place after a night of heavy flirting and drinking. “Don’t you want me?” She looked up at him again, her eyes bright.

She parted her lips and slid her tongue against the soft flesh, and he found himself mimicking the gesture with his own tongue. She was like a drug, a fucking addiction. He knew that if he didn’t give in to the need, the desire, the hope for one little taste, then he would eternally regret it. He would always wonder what if, what if, what if until it bleated through his mind like a staccato beat, erasing everything that had ever come before or that could ever come later.

He grabbed her in his hands and she seemed to disappear, like smoke. Flabbergasted, he watched as the blonde bombshell appeared in front of him. She focused on him with her heavily made up eyes laughing at him. She offered him a crooked smile and muttered, “Come on, Niklaus. Make my night.” And then she was plunging back into the press of humanity again and he was losing sight of his blonde daydream.

He threw himself into the group, shoving men and women away from him. The need for her was like a weight on his chest. It was as though his body was being pushed down by gravity, feeling heavier and heavier. He could barely lift one foot in front of the other, never mind force his damn lungs to move up and down. He could barely breathe. He was panting, sobbing with the desire to breathe. Or was it the desire to have her? He couldn’t tell the difference.

She was nearing the front of the club – he could see the door opening as the bouncer let more people inside. The crowd shifted towards the stage where the DJ was playing, like a living breathing beast. He could see it all so perfectly clear. She slithered through the belly of the beast and he slithered after her, moving past easier prey, willing prey.

He wanted the one whose blood he knew, _he just fucking knew_ , would satiate the pain in his heart, the dull tormented flow of his own blood in his veins. The blood of this vixen would bring him back to life, make him feel like a god again. He didn’t know when he had suddenly lost his power, his godhood, but he knew that if he could just sink his fangs into her neck, he would not only remember what had happened but he would get it all back.

She was the ambrosia and nectar he needed to lay his claim upon his throne.

She hit the door running and he was right behind her, slamming the metal door against the corrugated metal wall. The bouncer didn’t take notice of either of them, continuing to look at his clipboard of names and numbers as they barreled past him, past the long line of people hoping to get inside, the heartbeats screaming at his heightened senses like nails on a chalkboard. He shuddered beneath the onslaught as he followed his blonde goddess into the cool New Orleans night.

The gravel parking lot tinkled beneath their feet. She turned and laughed at him, flaunting her graceful neck in his direction. She was taunting him, he realized. She wanted him to catch her, to take her. She wanted him to wrap his hands around her throat as he snarled down at her, his eyes golden and predatory. He knew all of this in a split second and he swore that he would have her just as she wanted.

She turned and in that moment, he pushed himself forward. He grappled with her spaghetti strap tank top until his fingers found purchase. He pulled her back toward him and the laughter turned into a cry of surprise. His lips found the pulse point at her throat and the heat of her blood a second later. Her cry of surprise filled his ears, turning into a full bodied moan that sent shivers racing up and down his spine.

 _Who was this vixen_ , he wondered as he felt the first intoxicating drops of her blood hit his tongue.

She _was_ ambrosia, she _was_ nectar. She was every great and beautiful thing in the world. In his arms, she transformed beyond a simple human being and into the embodiment of emotion that encompassed people when they first beheld true beauty. It was that speechless split second, the breathless evocation of the human soul speaking to another human soul.

Her blood wasn’t simply _sweet_ ; it was _divine_.

As he pulled his fangs from her throat, he felt the heat of her blood against his chin. His tongue snaked past his lips, swirling against his chin to snag every last taste of her. The intimate feel of her against his chin singed his very soul. If he didn’t learn this creature’s name, find out how this sweet and beautiful thing could be so heady, so necessary to his very survival, he would lose his mind.

He lifted his head back and found the lifeless stare of eyes glossed over, dead and cold. The storm tossed sea of her eyes, the gentle curl of her blonde waves, the soft pink hue of her lips. How could he have ever forgotten? How could the sweet name of Caroline not have immediately come to mind the second he saw her? How could he have forgotten someone so sweet, so kind, so loving as Caroline?

“No, no,” he heard himself whisper, but he had killed her. “Oh, no. No, luv.” He whimpered again and pulled her body close to his chest, burying his face in her hair. He took a deep breath, inhaling her scent. He was trying to trap her there with him. He needed her to stay, but he knew that she was already gone.

The pain in his heart, the steady drumbeat of fire in his veins, heightened. The tender taste of her blood, the wild passion of her soul was supposed to have assuaged it but instead, he found that her death at his hands only made it worse. His veins were filled with hot magma, eating him from the inside out.

He screamed into the night. The scream slammed back against the stars, echoing across the rooftops and parking lot. It spoke of heartache, of torture, of sorrow, and of an unending pain. The lava burning through his body shot out of him in that bellow against the injustice of what had taken place, of what he had allowed to happen.

He pressed his hand to his chest as his heart tried to slam its way out of the bone cage that held it. He could feel his lungs pumping in tune with his heartbeat and he knew that his internal organs, furious with the knowledge that he had killed the only person who would respect him and take none of his shit, were trying to rebel. He fell to his knees against the betrayal of his body, against the betrayal of himself.

It was then, of course, that he realized that he was in hell. This was what suffering must have felt like. He had suffered once at the hands of his stepfather and at the brutal way his own mind drove him to constantly fear the loss of his family. But this was far beyond anything that his family had ever done to him. This was what true suffering was like and he understood – _finally_ – what his victims must have once felt at his hands.

Beneath his chest bone, his heart pulsed in time with the fire in his veins. He would never again know a moment’s peace.


End file.
